


stars (in their multitudes)

by Minty_Axolotl



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Drabble Collection, Drug Addiction, Fluff and Angst, Les Misérables References, M/M, Musical theater AU, Smoking, dennor are in tech booth, not high school au!, ok maybe I lied about the fluff, pain incoming!!!, sufin paint sets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 07:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17321066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minty_Axolotl/pseuds/Minty_Axolotl
Summary: Vargas Cabaret Theater is an oasis for those who struggle with mental illness and addiction, a therapeutic way to reintegrate, a place where the world can fall away to musical numbers and stage cues.It's also a place for friendships and relationships to blossom, to be questioned and pulled apart, to wilt. The latest production of Les Miserables pushes the cast and crew into doing just that.





	1. "i don't know" (lisa hannigan, cover by anna scouten)

**Author's Note:**

> wrote these two drabbles a long, long time ago, around the time when my other fic was still coming out, and when I found them I figured I should put them up here? fyi the title of each chapter is a song I was inspired by when I was writing it, so give it a listen if you want full immersion lol. also, ships are listed in order of appearance.  
> definitely let me know if you want more of this (because I had a lot of other pairings planned out somewhere), and if you want to give my other fic a read, let me know if I should post the last chapter! thanks a lot and remember to read the tags <3

They see each other in the tech booth sometimes.

The first time Mathias sees that face, hears that voice, his chest implodes just a little. All thoughts of the psychiatric wing of the hospital and anxiety medication and the scratch on the side of his bike and the fading front of the theater drop from his head. All he can see is Lukas, darkly shaded eyes glancing up with heavy lashes, narrow fingers tapping at the light board as he sits and watches with that impassive expression. Lukas is a mystery, something forever unobtainable.

And Mathias can’t help loving the thought of him.

The first time Lukas sees that face, hears that voice, something sleepy in the pit of his stomach stirs just a little. Exhaustion and insomnia take a backseat to whatever Mathias means, maybe a possible end to his crushing loneliness, or another string of silent failure. Whatever it is, it makes his head turn. A dizzying surge of fatigue hits his system, and he somehow stumbles back into his chair amid the heavy weight in his legs, waiting for the lethargy to pass. Mathias is a bright flash, something he’s never seen before.

And Lukas can’t help pondering the thought of him.

* * *

_I'd like to know you, maybe._

* * *

 

It’s the first dress rehearsal, everyone familiarizing themselves in full costume and makeup, Mathias and Lukas watching from the booth above as the crew scatter across the stage. Techs aren’t for another week, but Matthew and Emil had insisted they watch the show a few times. Mathias is busy reading over all of Emil’s plans for music cues and the timing for all of the songs. Lukas is busy memorizing all of Matthew’s plans for the each of the four spotlights and shaders in an attempt to stay awake.

Just another day.

But somehow it feels like the first one again, with that familiar unfamiliar pulsing longing and wonder in their veins, banter almost casual as they flick switches with a practiced ease.

The first song starts slowly but surely. Mathias lets himself take a glance at Lukas again, lets himself wander over those dark eyes and that pale hair. Lukas lets himself mentally drift again, his thoughts on a soft smile in the dark and cologne-coffee-whiskey.

Time lazily floats past them. Ludwig’s monologue starts, his crowning solo as Inspector Javert, and Mathias takes a short and shallow breath.

“Lukas, go out for drinks with me sometime.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwig hits the highest note with a dramatic flourish.

“Why not?”

“Reasons.”

* * *

_You know, I'd like to walk with you._

* * *

 

The Vargas Cabaret Theater is underfunded, which means peeling paint and slashed salaries and a cramped tech booth. It means Mathias will always smack into Lukas’s chair whenever he tries to spin in his own swivel chair, it means Lukas will always be bombarded by the faded cologne-coffee-whiskey trace of Mathias’s coat every morning, it means a stare, a glance, a long sigh after days of slowing rehearsals. It means drawn-out conversations about something strange or the weather or Antonio and Lovino or the theater.

“Hey, Lukas?”

“What do you want?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Lukas?”

“...I don’t care. Sure.”

“Okay. Why are you here?”

“Reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“It’s a job. I get paid. Emil works here.”

“No, but...I don’t want to be rude, but _everyone’s_ got a reason why they work here. A specific reason. You know what Vargas Cabaret is for.”

“My specific reason is that I get paid.”

“Lu _kas_ , quit dodging the question.”

“Mathi _as_ , shut up and get to work.”

* * *

  _I'd like to meet you._

* * *

 

It’s a week before Opening Night before Lukas can bring himself to speak to Mathias again, another week of dead silence having passed, and even then, it’s a short and vague statement during tech rehearsals.

“I can't drink alcohol with my medication.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry. My insomnia and my-”

“No, no, I get it, with the meds and all, I take a lot for my anxiety too. We don’t have to go out for drinks, you know, we can go for coffee or take a walk or s-”

“It's fine, Mathias.”

“...Sorry. I won’t ask again.”

The entire cast belts the last note with proud triumph, Lovino immediately shouting something about bad dress rehearsals and signaling the curtains. Lukas stands, an uncertain shake in his legs as he pushes his hairpin back against his temple.

“You know what, let's go for that drink tomorrow."

"Wait, y-"

"Yeah."

Mathias watches Lukas as he gets up, his shoes softly scuffing on the stained carpet. Mathias watches, feels the incomprehensible urge to reach out and say something, to tug on Lukas's sleeve and pull him closer. So he does. Lukas stares him in the face with a piercing challenge in his eyes, lips parting as if he's about to say something but has changed his mind.

 

He wants to steal a kiss. But these things never work out the way he wishes they would, and it feels wrong to even take a glance at Lukas. So he settles with acknowledging the warmth in his chest, acknowledging the quiet longing, letting go of Lukas and every burden he carries for now.

 

 

* * *

  _I’d like to understand you._

* * *

 

Closing Night; a rowdy push of encores and laughter and so much happiness in the air, it’s hard to frown again. Gilbert and Elizabeta sing their duet twice, both times to the joyous hoots of the crowd. The music is bright and their voices are clear as ever.

Back in the booth, Lukas is a little drunk and maybe a little hungry.

Back in the booth, Mathias is a little bruised and maybe a little lovesick.

The crowd’s applause is roaring through the thin walls of the tech booth, and he has to smile a little at the cast’s enthusiasm as they run through the curtain call with radiant smiles. Alfred blows sloppy kisses at the crowd, Antonio somehow pulling Lovino up onstage and making him and Vash deeply bow, the orchestra soaring through octaves with ease.

“Lukas,” Mathias starts.

“Mathias,” Lukas starts.

The flashes of light from all the cameras below illuminate his face in the most heartbreakingly lovely way.

And Mathias smiles at him too, takes a halting breath, and reaches for his hand.

“I’d like to know you, maybe.”

Lukas wordlessly lets their fingers twine together.


	2. "cigarette daydreams" (cage the elephant

_ four _

* * *

 

Tino’s just there.

Berwald’s just barely breathing.

Rain splatters against the thin roof, a restless rattling sort of noise, and the theater is perfectly empty. The thickly bitter trace of smoke lingers in the air.

It’s obvious Tino’s been smoking again. It’s obvious Berwald’s been crying again.

Little snatches and pieces of memories are crystalline in his memory, little glances of a barely-there smile and warm hands. It feels like today, like yesterday. It feels like Tino has never really been there at all, like a wispy breeze rushing through his hair, like the gasp of air in his throat. 

Really, Berwald wonders why he still works here at all, works and lives and breathes in the same city as Tino. Really, he wonders.

Tino’s still awkwardly standing there in the lobby, just like he used to in the mornings, still staring strangely as Berwald lets little droplets fall silently from his hair. It feels like forever ago since Tino would stand and wait for him to push through the worn-down double doors. It feels like forever ago since he’s had a radiant smile in his eyes. It probably was forever ago. Tino does strange things to him.

Berwald can feel cold raindrops on his fingertips now, fingertips faintly stained with nicotine once upon a time ago. He wants to turn around and never come back to this goddamned theater, but leaving never seems to go over well, so he takes a hesitant first step forward. Tino still stands there, rounded eyes impassive as ever.

And with a quick swish of his coat, he turns and walks through the doorway into the auditorium, heels neatly clicking across cheap linoleum.

What can Berwald do but follow?

And so he does, after a minute of suffocating silence, and the water still drips from his coat. The spotlights are all off inside. Tino’s on his back, sprawled across the stage floor like a thin blanket. Another damn cancer stick is between his lips, burning embers pulsing in the dim light, his left hand tapping on the floor again.

It’s a soft rhythm, one-two-three one-two one-two. It sounds like misery.

Berwald doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to bring up something that shouldn’t be brought up again, so he leans against the wall and watches as Tino taps his fingers and takes another short drag.

His eyes are wide open.

The familiar reek of nicotine soon fills the room again, no longer a trace anymore. Berwald is reminded of ashy smoke in his lungs. The thick coat he’s wearing is suddenly sweltering even with the icy rain soaking into his hair.

Tino starts warbling a little, hoarsely running through tenor vocal exercises as if he’s playing Valjean. And suddenly Berwald notices something he should have noticed too long ago, and the cold realization hits because Tino’s so obviously drunk off his mind. Why the hell else would Tino willingly be in the same room as him? 

And Berwald has to hold back an uncharacteristic laugh because goddamn he just noticed it about two seconds ago; he used to be able to tell things like this as if his life depended on it whenever it came to Tino and now what? Now he’s leaning against the peeling wall of the theater and watching as Tino drunkenly belts out I Dreamed A Dream with his lungs full of smoke and tar and his back on the stage and suddenly Berwald is slumped on his knees and his head spins just so-

And his head spins just so, and Tino coughs a thick and choking cough from the back of his throat.

“F-fuck!” His voice is harsh against the muted theater, hands scrabbling at his pockets, a burnt-out cigarette butt smeared across the stage. The gray ash is a dull streak across his hands. Berwald wants to sob.

And somehow he’s in front of Tino again, standing in the first row of seats as Tino stares up at the dark spotlights, just like that first day all over again. Berwald wonders if Tino even paints the sets here anymore, goddamn, he wonders if he isn’t hallucinating or dreaming because it really does feel like it as Tino starts to trill again, his voice still so sweet through ashy lungs, one-two-three one-two one-two one-two-three one-two one-two

* * *

 

_ three _

* * *

 

The house is cold.

“What the actual f-f-fuck did you just do-”

Did he forget to turn on the thermostat again?

“You’ve had enough.”

The room is clouded with smoke.

“You know what, to hell with you!”

The whiskey is gone again. Really, for the fourth time?

“I-”

The flickering light bulb that he hasn’t bothered to change yet flashes steadily in his eyes.

“Go to fucking hell! Get the fuck out, you pathetic little bitch, get out of my goddamned house!”

God, does it have to really have to rain?

“Tino, you’re-”

It feels like he’s alone again.

“Get the fuck OUT. I’m so fucking over all this fucking shit and you need to get away from me you piece of shit I can’t deal with you anymore, I can’t do this anymore, I fucking refuse to put up with another second of this, I can’t even think straight anymore it feels like I’m going insane, Berwald, insane, you barely _fucking_ speak anymore and oh my god it feels like I’m rotting away all over again it’s all _your fault_ -”

* * *

 

_ two _

* * *

 

There are warm palms against his eyes again, gentle fingers brushing over his eyelashes, the tinny echo of heavy music from earbuds floating through the air. The warmth is almost suffocating, not quite, but still enough to slightly restrict his breathing, still enough to slow each breath to a soft rush every few seconds. Berwald doesn’t want to ever move from this moment in time.

But Tino has already moved out of it. He’s not even in the room anymore, the clatter of plates soft in the background as he presumably sets the table, the warmth beneath the sheets now a bare echo. Something’s happening today. Berwald can’t recall for the death of him what it is or will be.

He can hear vocal warmups, a high and clear voice steadily working through arpeggio after arpeggio. Tino bursts into song suddenly, nearly shouting the words of something Berwald can’t recognize, and the clear voice is quickly replaced with loud and quick and hoarse Finnish. One of Tino’s songs, maybe, from one of those strange Finnish metal bands he loves so much.

Something’s happening today. Something’s different.

Really, Berwald can’t remember at all. The fading warmth that cocooned him moments ago is icy and chilled.

* * *

 

_ one _

* * *

 

The earbud hastily pressed into his right ear blares something Berwald can barely comprehend. And then again, it’s relaxing somehow, a background drone as he sits next to Tino and watches him drag a paintbrush over the landing Berwald had just finished, somehow letting himself watch those wide violet eyes and thick lashes and pale complexion with a little heartbreak.

Tino turns around proudly, grinning as he surveys his work. 

“What do you think, Berwald? After all, you’re the set builder and you have a lot more experience; did this turn out okay?”

“I-it’s nice. Turned out really g-good.”

Tino radiantly smiles at him. “Good. I wasn’t sure if I got the mood right. I’ve never seen a theater production of Les Miserables, only the movie.”

Berwald hesitantly smiles too, a twitch of his lips.

Oh, somehow, the new set painter is this wispy daydream whose clothes are stained with nicotine. And somehow, just somehow, Berwald is hopelessly in love with him already.

* * *

 

_ zero _

* * *

 

“Stars,” the wonderfully sweet voice sings, an octave higher than the original. Berwald stands in the doorway, and the warm sun shines on his back.

“In your multitudes,” he continues, sprawled on the theater floor. Berwald is drawn in so slowly, feet softly sliding across the carpet.

“Scarce to be counted.” He’s pale against the dark wood of the stage, a flickering cigarette between his two fingers, the once-familiar reek of smoke swimming through Berwald’s head. 

He’s at the edge of the stage now, just sort of watching, and the mystery’s lovely face almost smiles up at him. And Berwald only watches as he takes a little breath and just lets out a whisper of a line, melodious and lovely even through the thick smoke.

“Filling the darkness…”


End file.
